


Holy Branches

by DonnesCafe



Series: Holy Branches 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bonfire Night, Child Abuse, Drug Use, Family, Gen, Guy Fawkes Night, Love, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for maps-with-stars in response to this request on Tumblr: "I guess I’m never getting my exchangelock gift :(( I’m so sad it was such a cute prompt. Someone write me a fic where Sherlock finds kid!john at a crime scene please." Since it's Guy Fawkes day, this just sort of happened....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holy Branches

_But everybody's bones are just holy branches_  
 _Ride the breeze to cut patterns in the leaves_  
 _And in time we find some shelter_  
 _Spill our seeds and then wait for our turns_  
 _But for now we're adrift on the waves of discontent_  
 _Trying to carve our place_  
 _All in hopes we'll be something they want_  
 _But I'm not holding my breath_  


Radical Face, “Holy Branches”  
  
~~~~~ 

“For God’s sake, Lestrade, this is a four at best. The girl was a prostitute. She was strangled. The man, obviously, stabbed.” He flicked a finger at the crumpled figure in the pool of blood, eyes glaring, unseeing, at the ceiling. “Find her pimp and her last client. One of them’s most likely your killer. Other’s the victim. Sordid. Common. This was a waste of my time.” He shouldn’t have come. The last injection of the seven percent solution he had used hadn’t quite worn off. But Lestrade hadn’t called him to a case in two weeks, and he hadn’t wanted to miss the chance of something interesting. It was bloody unfair that the night the DI had called he had already given in to the boredom. His skin had been crawling with it. He had been clean for almost a month this time. 

“You haven’t even really looked at the bodies,” Lestrade said. “The girl’s not more than thirteen or fourteen. For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, come over here and…” The policeman grabbed the younger man by the sleeve of his long coat and turned him around. Looked into his eyes. 

“Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock. You’re high. You’re fucking high. That’s why you didn’t come any closer. You promised me.” 

“And you promised me a case, Inspector. This one’s a bit late. And boring. So shall we call it even?” 

“You can’t come to crime scenes high. I told you that. I thought you wanted to get clean. I thought you wanted….” 

“Spare me the lecture." Sherlock popped up the collar of his coat and turned around. As he turned, he noticed a small footprint at the edge of the wall, almost hidden in a shadow. It could have been there before, of course. This was an abandoned building. His brow furrowed. He looked back at the man's body. The knife must have been angled up. Someone shorter. Much shorter. He opened his mouth to say something to Lestrade, but the DI spoke first. 

“We’re done,” said Lestrade. “I’m done with you.” 

“You and everyone else," Sherlock spat out. "And you can all go to hell.” He didn’t look back. Tears pricked behind his eyelids, and he hated himself for them. He hated himself, full stop. And Lestrade, and bloody Mycroft, and everyone else. Lestrade had said he was done. So was he. He was tired of disappointing everyone. Tired of the mess he had made of his life. Tired of craving things he couldn’t even name, a life he couldn’t quite touch. Always out of reach. 

He shivered. It was dark, damp, cold. The fifth of November. Remember. Remember. They built bonfires when he was a child. Sparks leaping into the cold air. Flames leaping in Mycroft's eyes when Mycroft had been happy. Mummy and Daddy loved celebrations of all sorts. He and Mycroft rolled their eyes at the Christmas and Valentine Day nonsense, but they both secretly loved bonfire night. Mummy usually roasted partridges and Daddy mulled wine and gave them coins. Hugs and coins, even when they were as tall as he was. Even when My had gone to university, he had come back for bonfire night. Until everything went wrong, until Sherlock had started using at Oxford. 

He remembered bonfire night his first year at Oxford. Victor told him the day before that they could no longer see each other. He couldn’t be associated with the freak. They could no longer do…. That. The things Sherlock had never dreamed he would do with anyone. Things that set his blood alight with the hope, the unreasonable hope, that someone would love him. Victor had laughed when he had, so hesitantly, used the word love. Told him that he was a gorgeous thing but, overall, too dangerous to the life that Victor had carefully planned for himself. 

By Guy Fawkes night, instead of going home for the annual celebration, he found cocaine and learned to inject it. He wandered across the Magdalen College quad higher than the proverbial kite, masked by the drunken revelers around him. He contemplated throwing himself into the bonfire that raged in the middle of the green lawn, but there were too many people. Next bonfire night he was in rehab. He had never been home for the celebration since. 

“You can come out now,” he said, stopping at the entrance to a dark alleyway. He should just leave it, he thought. He didn’t give a damn about anyone. That’s what everyone said. He was a sociopath, wasn’t he? He should walk on. But he was, still, curious. That’s what he told himself. The angle of the stab wounds and the small footprint left in the shadows that Lestrade hadn't seen suggested something intriguing. 

“You can’t stay in there forever. How did you manage it? I’m curious. The man was twice your size. Twice… no, three times your weight. Who was she?” 

He heard a dragging step. Then the boy appeared at the entrance to the alleyway, his face still in shadow. 

“Ah, your sister,” said Sherlock. The boy stepped further into the light. He couldn’t be more than ten. His face was swollen and bruised. He had been crying. Same ash-blond hair, same build as the dead girl. 

The boy straightened. His chin went up. “You can turn me in. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore.” 

“Why would I turn you in? I’d say the world was well rid of him. Pimp?” 

The boy nodded. 

“Well, I’m not the police, and I have better things to do than filling out endless paperwork. I’m...” Sherlock stopped. What did one say to a ten-year-old killer who looked like a sad and slightly damaged choirboy? Who looked at him steadily with calm blue eyes that had obviously seen too much. Far too much. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Sherlock. “I suggest you throw the knife in the Thames without delay. And there is a drop of blood on your left sleeve. Burn the shirt.” 

The boy nodded. Sherlock turned and took three steps down the uneven, cobbled street. Stopped. If he turned back around, something told him that his life would change. Perhaps that was for the best. Was almost certainly for the best. He thought about the cocaine hidden in the skull. Enough to OD. That had been his plan until seconds ago. He’s have to get rid of that, of course. 

He turned. The wind picked up, leaves skittered across the street. “Your leg?” he asked. 

The boy’s expressive mouth thinned. “Our Dad. He… broke it. Harry… I…” 

Sherlock saw it all, in and amongst the halting words. His hands clenched. He tried to keep his voice calm. “He’s dead now?” 

“Finally drank himself to death,” said the boy. “Too late for Harry.” 

“But not too late for you, I think. The name is Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days at a time. Would that bother you?” 

“No… no, sir. My name is John. John Watson.” 

“Come along then, John. After we get rid of…,” he gestured. “…. this and that, would you like to go to look at the bonfires? I liked them when I was your age.” 

John nodded. Next year they would go home. Mummy and Daddy would be pleased. Sherlock Holmes was a twenty-eight-year old addict. Well, he had been an addict. Now, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, he had become a father. A small smile tugged at his lips. Mycroft would put up an almighty fuss about this, but then he would find specialists to fix that leg. Mycroft, he suspected, would enjoy being an uncle. Life suddenly wasn’t boring. John smiled back. The smile was a small, tentative thing. 

“I’d like that. Thank you, sir.” 

“Call me Sherlock,” he said.


End file.
